For Her
by PrimeWoman
Summary: SPOILERS 10.6 After her funeral, Harry has a conversation with an old friend.


Spoilers for 10.6, (which, a mon avis, was heartbreaking and horrible, but ultimately what it was always going to be, and perfectly executed.)

After crying for an inordinate amount of time, I thought I'd share what I imagine spurred Harry on to be able to answer that phone.

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><p>He lingers just a little longer as the few who have come move away. There were more than six in the end, though not as many as there should have been, as she deserved. There are four or five junior officers from Thames House (one of whom he is sure has only worked there a few months… but that was her effect, he muses), they move off from the Church together, heads bowed away from him and his grief. There's a woman he doesn't recognise, a neighbour? Towers comes to rest a hand on his shoulder. Harry feels him open his mouth, perhaps hoping to pass on some comfort but Towers decides against it and pats his shoulder again awkwardly before joining a small mousy woman who, Harry supposes, must be Margot. And then there's Dmitri, Calum and Erin. It's Erin who ventures forward, having insisted on driving him here in the morning, he presumes she's going to ask to take him back now… but he isn't quite ready to leave, ready to talk, ready for anything really.<p>

"Harry, are… do you want me to take," she begins and Harry can heard the shadow of a sob in her voice but he can't bare to face her. He senses Dmitri and Calum move to either side of her, protecting each other, holding each other together.

"I'll take him home." This new voice is old and familiar and welcome and commanding enough that the three young officers turn and leave with only a moments hesitation. He knows they want to say more to him and he knows for the sake of their grief, he should probably allow it, but he can't. So they leave the two old men alone in the quite church yard.

"You don't have to stay Malcolm."

"No, I don't." is the only reply his old friend gives. Harry feels no pressure to leave, but as he looks out over the graves of people he doesn't know and didn't care for, he realises there's nothing here for him. Part of him believes there's nothing for him anywhere but that's not something to dwell on now.

"Thank you for… the poem was beautiful." Harry manages to say through the tightness in his throat, in his body. It was beautiful. Perfect for her. Part of Harry wishes he could have read it, could have said something could have contributed to her last goodbye. But he thinks of all the times she watched him grieve and thinks she'd understand.

"Let me drive you home Harry." Malcolm expects Harry to resist, to insist on keeping vigil here. When Harry willing moves away, they're both somewhat shocked. The journey passes in silence, not uncomfortable but necessary. When they reach Harry's door, Malcolm follows him in without asking permission.

Harry sits in the living room, unable to play host, so Malcolm makes them both tea, presuming Harry's won't be drunk but hoping to put him off the whisky decanter for a while longer. When he comes back in, he finds Harry slumped forward on the sofa, his hands covering his tired face. Malcolm sits opposite and lets silence hold the room for some minutes.

"I wish you'd come to her first funeral." is the first thing that slips from his mouth. Harry looks up sharply, and there's almost the beginnings of a smile somewhere deep in his eyes. Harry wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. It's an odd thing to say, Malcolm supposes.

"I know it was a charade to us. But her friends from university, family, former co-workers. There were more people. You would have seen how truly loved she was, Harry." Harry holds Malcolm's gaze for a moment, seemingly considering his words before looking away. The next question is quiet and Malcolm doesn't think he's ever heard Harry Pearce sound so unsure of anything in his life.

"Do you think she knew?"

"Knew?" says Malcolm.

"How much she was… loved." Both men know what Harry is asking. And for a moment, Malcolm is so angry at Harry Pearce for never telling her. All those years gone by and the bravest man he ever knew couldn't even tell that beautiful woman how much he loved her. But this isn't about Malcolm's anger or about happy endings that should have been, could have been… so he says,

"They say women always know. And Ru-, with that brain of hers? She never missed a thing."

Harry knows it's true. She did know, she doubted perhaps, especially with Elena. But he remembers reminding her of his botched attempt of a proposal (a memory that hurts too much to be allowed more than a few seconds recollection) how it settled her nerves, he thinks of her taking his hand and the house. He just wanted someone else to tell him, to confirm it. She knew.

"She didn't believe that she deserved to be happy, Malcolm. After everything she'd done and she didn't believe she deserved to be happy. I was going to show her she did, I was going to…" And for the first time all day, Harry is crying. Malcolm watches Harry's body shake violently. Of all the things Malcolm's borne witness to, the unravelling of Harry Pearce is one of the most difficult to watch. There's no clever comment he can make, no Shakespeare for this, no poem or witty comment.

Harry's glad that Malcolm allows him to be weak, when he's alone, he tries to be strong. He supposes its for her, for the her he imagines watching him when he's alone. But here in front of Malcolm Wynn-Jones, Harry doesn't care about falling apart.

"You would have made her very happy... You did make her happy and she loved you. I don't have anything better than that to give you Harry. She loved you. That's what you have to hold on to, that you were worthy of her love."

A snort of derision comes from Harry. And all that anger Malcolm has stored away over the years, the hurt at all those things that should have happened, the happiness that should have come, comes pouring out. Before he has time to censure himself, he is standing, shouting at this crying, bitter man.

"No Harry. You don't get to do her that disservice! You don't insult her that way. Ruth loved you, that clever wonderful woman loved you. She wouldn't have wasted that on anyone, she wasn't a fool. Even if you are, you stupid man. "

His words echo into the emptiness of the house, into the empty space between them. He's heard Malcolm shout so rarely that Harry feels instantly ashamed; perhaps the feeling pertains to the memory of the last time, of Colin. But there's not room for that grief in Harry's heart.

"You're right. You're right." Harry doesn't think there's anybody in the world but this sweet, uncompromising man before him that he'd confess the next thing to; "I don't know if I can be the man she loved… she made me that man."

Malcolm sits down next to Harry.

"Ruth did a lot of wonderful things Harry, and she did make you a happier man. Perhaps a better one, but you were a ruddy good one before she stumbled in to your life." Harry looks him in the eye, and take a deep breath.

And it's like he's remembering who he was, not before her, not without her, not even in those brief moments he felt he was truly 'with her' but the Harry Pearce he could be, sat in his office, knowing she was watching him from across the grid. The Harry Pearce who went to work every day despite knowing exactly how much pain could be inflicted, on the world, on his colleagues, on himself. The Harry Pearce who could make the impossible choices. The Harry Pearce who could somehow see hope and potential in each new agent despite years of disspointment. The Harry Pearce who had given more than she ever thought possible. The kind, stubborn, impossible, clever, ruthless, brave Harry Pearce. The Harry Pearce Ruth Evershed had loved.

"Thank you." is all he can say.

"Harry, if you need me… to come back to Section D." It's a testament to how much Harry means to him, how much Ruth meant.

"Of course not. But, maybe, you could…" he clears his throat, "come around for a whisky, if you wanted… from time to time. To talk about,"

"Whenever you need, Harry." Malcolm rises, part of him doesn't want to leave Harry but somehow he thinks he'll be… well, he doesn't think he's going to have to go to another funeral anytime soon. So he heads to the door. Harry follows him and they shake hands. Malcolm goes to pull away and leave but he finds Harry holding on still, taking a deep breath like the thing he's going to say next will take all his strength.

"She… Ruth, Ruth loved you dearly, you know Malcolm." The old friends look at each other. Harry is allowing Malcolm his moment to grieve, to say his goodbye.

"I'm very sorry she's gone, Harry… Call me, yes? Get that Calum kid of yours to get you a proper phone and if you need…"

"Yes, yes." And the door shuts behind and Harry finds himself alone again.

He decides that he'll give himself two days. He wants to see the house, so that in the moments when he needs to, he can imagine her pottering around the kitchen and teasing him for spoiling her cats. Another to go to a place he's never been to before, but perhaps should have visited long ago. He gets out his phone and dials a number.

"Towers, I'll be there on Monday." He doesn't give Towers a chance to say anything, to argue or to praise. He isn't doing this for him.


End file.
